Together, they turned toward the stairs that would take them down to the gates. To death’s awaiting embrace. A horn cleaved through the air, through the battle, through the world. Aedion went still. Whirled toward the direction of that horn, to the south. Beyond Morath’s teeming ranks. Beyond the sea of blackness, to the foothills that bordered the edge of Theralis’s sprawling plain. Again, that horn blared, a roar of defiance. “That’s no horn of Morath,” Lysandra breathed. And then they appeared. Along the edge of the foothills. A line of golden-armored warriors, foot soldiers and cavalry
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